Page 2 of Before I Lost You

My clothes are hard to take off, sticking to me in a way that’s bordering on annoying, but I finally manage to get out of them. I throw them on the ground next to the sink, uncaring that the water is getting on the hardwood floor. I should give a shit, but all I feel is numb. Nothing can touch me. Nothing can hurt me. Nothing matters.

Getting into the shower and under the hot spray of water is a relief. My muscles instantly relax, and I tip my head back and let the water drip over my face. After a few minutes of standing around, I wash my hair and lather myself up, washing my body too. But when I make it to my cock, I feel a familiar ache that’s hard to ignore. This is what I should’ve done to begin with. I should’ve stayed in and used my hand; it’s the most reliable lately anyway.

I grip my cock with a steady fist, pumping it up and down with soap in my hand to make it an easy glide. It feels incredible, and my toes curl into the tile. This. This is what I needed tonight, not whatever the fuck that was at the guy’s apartment. Why can’t I feel anything with another person? That makes no sense. All I’ve had lately are lackluster fucks and a ton of disappointment. I’m honestly tired of it. Exhausted of pretending to give a shit when that’s the last thing on my mind. I’m tired of putting on an act for the sake of getting laid.

I think I’m done.

No.

IknowI am.

My hand slaps against the shower wall as I feel the heat pool in my lower belly, my spine tingling with my impending release. I grit my teeth as I feel the gradual pleasure mount, and I breathe in deeply, nostrils flaring as my balls draw up. And then I makea mistake. I close my eyes and imagine hands on my skin. His hands. The ones that belong to someone I don’t know. Someone who isn’t real at all. I see the curve of his back in my mind’s eye like he’s right there, though. I look further down, and his ass is in front of me, dimples right above it. My hands spread his cheeks, and I stare at his hole, tight and pink and so fucking pretty.

It’s that sight that has my body tightening, my cum spraying onto the shower wall in streaks. I groan lowly and tip my head back, my body shaking slightly from the force of my orgasm. Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is wrong with me? Why can I only come to images of an imaginary person in my brain? It makes zero sense, and I’m afraid I’ll be comparing everyone to him from now on. There’s no way anyone can match his perfection. And that’s… problematic. But he feels real. Like a memory, instead of my imagination. Is it possible I’ve actually met him before and just don’t remember him? That would make more sense than me making up someone in my mind.

I rinse my body and clean the wall, then turn the water off and grab the towel hanging from the shower wall hook. It’s fluffy, and I shut my eyes and breathe in deeply as I dry myself. When I step out, I immediately grab the clothes from the floor and take them to the laundry room, throwing them in the washer and going back to my room.

My bed looks inviting in a way it hasn’t been in a very long time, so I pull the comforter back and climb in, draping it over my body until only my face is out of it. And then I breathe, staring up at the ceiling for what feels like forever. It’s peaceful, and I’d say I’m almost in a meditative state when I let my eyes finally close. I’m relaxed, limbs melting into the mattress as I take deep breaths and begin literally counting sheep. I know it’s stupid, but sometimes it helps me fall asleep. I’ve had trouble sleeping my entire life.

I turn onto my left side, the way I usually fall asleep, and breathe in deeply one more time. But when everything finally goes black, and I’m sure I’ve fallen asleep, all I see are images of him. Again. An infinity tattoo between his thumb and forefinger. A gold chain that feels cold against my lips when I kiss his neck. And it feelssodamn real.

Why can’t I escape him?

Chapter 2

A STRANGE KIND OF LUCK

It’s been two weeks since I fucked that guy, and he kicked me out. Two weeks since I fucked anyone at all. The only thing that hasn’t changed is my dreams. Of course, those are still going as strong as ever, taking an immense amount of space in my brain during my waking hours as well.

I’ve decided to take a break from hooking up. It’s clearly not working out for me, if the last few boring encounters have been any indication. I haven’t even touched myself since the last time in the shower, either, and I wonder if this is me punishing myself for something I can’t control. Either way, I’m trying to convince myself that I don’t need sex in my life. I don’t think I’ve been successful at it, but I’m trying.

Emerson is sitting beside me at the bar and grill, sharing a basket of mozzarella sticks and drinking a beer. I’m not a huge fan of beer, but I can drink it occasionally when I’m out with friends. I prefer liquor, but we have a gallery we’re attending after this, and we need to be mostly sober. At least not all the way drunk. We’re a little out of place, sitting here in our suits, butthe event just started, and Em wants to be fashionably late, as he called it.

The hockey playoffs are playing on the television right in front of us, and I watch the screen as the Panthers score another goal. It seems they’re taking the cup again this year, undefeated. I gulp my beer and grab another mozzarella stick when Emerson’s hand stills mine. I look over at him, and he has an eyebrow raised. It makes me frown, and I turn toward him.

“I have a question,” he says, nose wrinkling as it does when he finds something amusing. “And don’t take it the wrong way.”

I snort. “That’s reassuring.”

“When was the last time you got laid?”

My eyes narrow on his face as I think about how I want to proceed. Do I want to tell him about my predicament? But no, I’d sound absolutely batshit crazy. There’s no way I can tell him I can’t fuck anyone because of a man from a dream. Well, dreams. I see him every night like clockwork. I just can’t seem to escape him.

“Why?” I ask him.

“Just answer the question, Conrad.” He grins. “Something tells me it’s been a while.”

“It’s been two weeks.” I roll my eyes. “That’s not even that long.”

Emerson’s brown eyes widen, his jaw drops, and his hand goes up to cover his mouth. “Not that long?” he practically shrieks. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Don’t be so fucking dramatic, Emerson,” I huff. “Sex has been boring lately, so it feels pointless.”

“Sounds like a you problem,” Em says, then takes a bite of his mozzarella stick and chews. “There’s no way it’s the fault of all the guys you fuck.”

I sigh. “It is a me problem. Maybe I’m just tired of being casual.”

“You?” he chokes. “You’re literally the king of casual.”